Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was
starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne and
smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new
apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?
These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before
us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines on
his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking their
cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the
convives--the wine circulated--the fragrant smoke rose--the
conversation became general--and all was animation.
"No, sir!" says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, "the
President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call
Mr. Davis 'pig-headed,' Mr. Croker--you are wrong, sir! You do
injustice to the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!"
And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire,
extracting the blood of his victim.
Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous;
his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of a
millionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.
"You are right, my dear, sir," says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat.
"The government has assuredly been administered, from its very
inception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of the
Executive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious or
constitutional.
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